The Escape of a Winchester
by SlutForSupernatural
Summary: Dean is a dangerous criminal, who escapes from a high-security prison and kidnaps Castiel to be his hostage. Neither Dean nor Castiel is sure that he will leave unharmed. TW for murder, kidnapping, and violent sexual encounters. Rated M for aforementioned encounters.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone. To expand on the summary: Dean Winchester, a dangerous criminal, escapes from a high security prison. Castiel, a waiter who doesn't really believe that a maniac would stick around town, soon finds himself as the hostage of a murderer, and a rapist. I never really cared for the hostage stories where the victim falls in love with their captors, so don't expect that. Maybe the other way around? I don't know. Maybe. TW for murder, kidnapping, and violent sexual encounters. As always, I own nothing, and reviews are always appreciated (good or bad).**

It was a normal three-o-clock Tuesday afternoon. The restaurant was deserted, with another two hours before Castiel could begin to expect any customers. He and the other staff members lounged in the booths, watching TV on the large flat screens that circled the large room. Some football game was playing, but Castiel couldn't honestly have cared less. He had never really gotten in to sports, and today wasn't going to be an exception. Castiel had a booth to himself, his back pressed against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him as he tried to follow what was going on.

 _"_ _It's a beautiful day here in Lawrence, and this game is really heating up!"_ a sports announcer droned on, his false excitement really beginning to irritate the waiter, _"_ _I am joined here today with-"_ and the game was reduced to static.

"Aw, fuck!" One of Castiel's coworkers growled, having clearly been invested in the game. But, before long, the static evaporated. Although instead of the wide-smiled sports reporter, a clearly frazzled woman, donned in a business-like suit, stared out into the restaurant. A red banner scrolled across the top of the screen, donned with the words, 'WARNING: DANGEROUS CONVICT ESCAPED FROM LAWRENCE JAIL'.

"Ladies and gentleman," the woman began, her wide eyes betraying the cool, collected confidence she was attempting to portray. "We would like to first apologize for interrupting your regularly scheduled broadcast. This is Channel Six news, with an important announcement." It was then that a picture appeared above the woman's shoulder, revealing a man in an orange jumpsuit, a glower turning what could have been a rather handsome face into one that gave Castiel shivers. The news reporter continued, "A disappearance was reported this morning at Lawrence High Security Prison. Dean Winchester escaped his cell by unknown means, and is now at large." A panicked gasp ripped through the restaurant, as both men and women alike shot up from their seats, while others stayed down, paralyzed by fear. "Winchester was serving twenty-five years to life in prison, after admitting to murder, kidnapping, and rape. Please, ladies and gentlemen do not panic. Officials report being on Winchester's trail. However, we urge everyone to exercise caution. Police ask residence of Lawrence to remain in groups, and not to go out at night. While it is unlikely that Winchester would stay in town, safety is everyone's priority. Also, if you see this man" the picture expanded, taking up the whole screen, "immediately call the police. Do not attempt to engage Dean Winchester. He is extremely dangerous, and-" the screen went black.

"Everyone," the manager said, remote control in hand, "go home. Don't come back until further notice. I won't risk anyone getting hurt." With that, the man put the controller down and left the building, already pulling out his phone to call his family.

There was silence, as stunned staff members grabbed what belonged to them and began to filter out. Castiel trailed behind, turning off the lights and locking up doors as the rest of the staff trickled out the doors, not saying a word. As Castiel locked the front door, one of his coworker leaned against the wall.

"Where are you parked, Castiel?" Balthasar asked, his arms crossed.

"You know I don't drive, Balthasar. It's so slow. I'll take the bus" Castiel responded, pulling the key out of lock and sliding the chain into his back pocket.

"Don't be thick, Castiel. You are not taking public transportation today. I'll drive you." Castiel's friend gestured toward his car invitingly.

"That's silly, Balthasar and you know it. Dean Winchester is not going to attack me on a bus. Besides, my apartment is on the other side of town. IT's way out of your way."

"I don't like it, Cas. That monster doesn't know fear. He's been pent up in that prison for _three years_. Who knows what kind of rage he's got going on in that sick skull?" Balthasar shook his head, taking Castiel's arm and pulling him towards his car.

"Balthasar, no. Alright? I am a grown man. Winchester is not going to get on a bus just to kidnap someone. Besides, you heard the news woman. He probably isn't going to stick around. Why would he?"

Balthasar sighed, "Okay, one: I know you're a grown man. That's what I'm worried about. That creep doesn't just prey on women, Cas. You know that. Second: he might just get on a bus and open fire. Maybe he just wants to get all the murder out before he gets the death penalty. I heard he is being considered. After this… he's definitely done. Lights out, Cas. That sicko might just want to go out in a blaze of glory."

Castiel clenched his jaw, resolve setting in, "Balthasar, no. You know I don't like being in cars. They make me feel very claustrophobic. Now, I am going to the bus station, and going home. If you want to drive me there, I can stand to be in that car for two minutes while you drop me off."

"Fine, Castiel." Balthasar, turning away from Castiel to mask his frustration, "just… fine."

Just like Castiel predicted, no open-firing occurred on the quiet bus ride home. As he departed the bus in front of his building, a quiet, 'be safe, sir' followed him out.

 _'_ _This is ridiculous,'_ Castiel thought to himself as he approached the front doors of his building, _'_ _everyone is acting ridiculous. That man evaded the police for years before they caught him… he isn't an idiot. He won't stay in Lawrence.'_ Then, just to prove he could, Castiel decided he would take a walk around the block. Cars were still zipping by, and the sun was shining brightly. For god's sake, birds were chirping! No devil incarnate was going to appear here.

Castiel strolled along the sidewalk, taking extra time to stop and appreciate the flowers growing in a box along the road. A fat bee buzzed along, landing every few moments on a bright flower. As he walked, and began to see his brick building around the corner, Castiel realized that it really was a very pleasant route for a walk. Maybe, once all this fuss about Dean Winchester was over, he would do this more often. Of course, not now. Sure, Castiel didn't believe that a maniac was going to appear and whisk him away, but he had made his point, hadn't he? No point tempting fate.

As Castiel approached his building, he heard the low rumble of a car approach from behind. Now, many cars had passed so far, and this one was no different. Except, as he saw it pass, it struck him as oddly familiar. He could have sworn that it had circled around several times. But, before he could read much into it, the shiny black vehicle disappeared around a corner. Castiel shrugged, and continued on his way.

Just in front of his building, Castiel paused as he felt the telltale buzz in his pocket. He pulled out his phone, and looked down to see an all caps, frantic message brightening his screen, 'CASTIEL. WHERE ARE YOU. YOU SAID YOU WOULD TELL ME WHEN YOU GOT BACK TO YOUR APT!1!'

Fuck. That's right. Castiel had promised Balthasar he would send him a text when he got home. He was at least fifteen minutes late. Castiel quickly paused in front in of the building and dialed his friend's number.

"Castiel. Are you okay?" Balthasar's fear coming through perfectly, and Castiel felt a pang of guilt for forgetting his promise.

"Yes, Balthasar, I am perfectly fine. I just forgot. I am very sorry. I imagine you were quite worried for my safety, but I really am fine." It was then that the black car from before appeared once again around the corner. Castiel was _positive_ now that it was circling the block. As Balthasar ran through the obligatory 'you scared me so much don't ever do it again you don't appreciate what I try to do for you' speech, Castiel watched the car approach, at what seemed to be an oddly slow speed. Then, an odd thing happened.

The car stopped. In front of Castiel. For a moment, Castiel thought he recognized the freckled face from the news. Of course, Castiel knew this was probably just a confused, lost stranger. That is, until a gun appeared, pointed directly at Castiel's head.

"Hang up the phone."

Castiel paused, panic making him immobile.

"Now." The safety was now off. The gun was loaded.

"Listen, Balthasar," Castiel said, trying not to make his panic evident. "I need to go. We'll talk later." With that, Castiel quickly hung up the phone, his arms lying limp at his sides.

"Good. Now, unless you want me to shoot you in the face, get in the car. Make a single noise and you're dead."

Castiel gulped. He wasn't sure what he was going to do here. He remembered someone telling him once that, in the event he was ion this exact situation, 'he would probably rather get shot than get in the car'. Considering this man was a rapist, Castiel wondered if maybe he really _would_ rather get shot than go with this man. But then again, Castiel would bet money that Dean Winchester was just desperate, and needed a hostage so he could get out of Lawrence safely.

But maybe not.

"Hey, are you deaf? This is your last warning. Get in this car, right now."

Castiel thought about the sweet old lady who lived across the hall, and how much he did not want her to find her neighbor dead on the sidewalk. Or the landlord. Or some kid, on their way home from school. That would be really traumatic… If he went with this man, there was always a possibility that he would escape. So his choice was either: Probably end up dead, or _definitely_ end up dead.

Castiel reached for the handle, pulled, and sat down. No sooner had he pulled the door shut did the car shoot forward. The butt of the gun that had originally coerced Castiel into the car slammed into the side of Castiel's head, and everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter is kind of short, but the ending seemed natural. Also I like to upload a lot when I first start a fic. As always, I own nothing, and I'd love to hear from people. Anyway, here's the second chapter. Thanks to for being the first to subscribe!**

Castiel drifted back into consciousness, still drunk with sleep. At first, Castiel didn't realize his situation. Maybe he had fallen asleep at the restaurant? Or on the bus. He did that sometimes. His head was resting on his shoulder at an awkward, painful angle. Also, he was sitting up, so it would make sense if he was sitting upright, on a bus. There was also a chance that instead of stopping in front of his building, a sitting duck so close to safety, he had actually gone inside and sent Balthazar a text, then fallen asleep. That was certainly a possibility….

But damn, did his head hurt. A sharp, pounding pain, originating in his temple and spreading throughout his whole skull. Were his hands suspended above his head? And Castiel could have sworn he heard a familiar rumble, and could feel the occasional dip or bump thanks to the old roads leading out of Lawrence.

Castiel opened his eyes a crack, casting his gaze up to his hands. Sure enough, they were handcuffed to the handhold above the passenger window, the chain threaded through it, keeping both his hands up above his head and away from the driver. Castiel groaned, both an acknowledgement of the extreme pain in his head, wrists, and joints, as well as in realization of his situation. He hadn't been dreaming. Castiel was sitting next to Dean Winchester, off to who knows where to endure who knows what.

"You awake, sleeping beauty?"

Castiel didn't respond. He refused to respond. Castiel would be damned if he was going to reduce to pleasantries with his abductor. He sat up as straight as he could with his arms bent at such an awkward angle, and painfully lifted his aching head off his shoulder. Castiel gave stretching his best effort, trying to wear out the stiffness in his joints.

"Trying to ignore me? Alright, I'll play. I can talk for days, sweetheart. If it means we can avoid the whole 'what do you want where are going' nonsense, that sounds wonderful." Dean gave a throaty chuckle, laughing at his own joke. He continued, "Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll be out of this dump soon. I would have loved it if you would have stayed asleep, but I suppose we can always remedy that." It was then that Castiel saw movement out of his peripheral. He was trying his hardest to keep his eyes trained forward in an attempt to ignore his chauffer, but he couldn't help but see Winchester reach for the silver pistol resting beside him by the barrel, and pull his arm back, preparing to slam the butt of the gun into Castiel's head once more.

In a burst of adrenalin, Castiel threw himself against the door, trying to get as far from his captor as he could. He tucked his head in between his arms, doing his best to shield himself. In an unconscious effort to make himself smaller, Castiel drew his knees up against his chest, transforming himself into a trembling ball in the passenger seat.

"No no no no, please," Castiel stammered, momentarily forgetting his promise to keep silent, "I'll be quiet. I won't make a sound." Tears started to flow down his cheeks, all his panic and anxiety hitting him full force. The cool collectiveness completely evaporated. "Please just don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want. Please."

Dean laughed, making Castiel move his head out of the safety of his cocoon to cast a glance at him. The man put the gun back down, replacing his hand on the wheel. Castiel relaxed, but kept his knees up and his elbows pressed against the side of his head.

"That's what I like to hear," Dean said. "But I should warn you, if you do 'whatever I want'," Dean looked over to his passenger, giving him a smirk that made a ball of lead form in Castiel's gut, "it's gonna hurt."


	3. Chapter 3

**You all know the deal. I own nothing, and I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts.**

They heard the sirens before they saw the cars. Turning the corner, a blockade of officers in bulletproof vests swarmed the street, all aimed directly at the car. The police! They must have realized Winchester was still around somehow, and tracked them down before Dean could escape Lawrence. Castiel felt a glimmer of hope. Before Castiel could even process what was happening, he felt the cold metal of Dean's gun pressed firmly against his temple.

"Won't even think twice," Dean shouted, his voice playing out the open window, "and you all know I'll do it. God knows I've done it before."

For what seemed like forever, nothing moved. Nobody made a sound. Castiel, whose adrenalin rush was beginning to seep away, leaving him a frazzled mess, sat curled in the passenger seat, staring out at the officers.

A man with a shiny badge spoke into a bullhorn, "Winchester! Release the hostage, now!"

Dean laughed, "Ya'll think I'm playing? I'm not going back to prison. If it means I have to kill this man and ram my car through everyone here, I'm leaving this shit town." With that, Dean rolled up the windows, cutting off any further communication. He revved the engine, making several of the officers cringe. Then, Dean carefully slunk down in his seat, hiding himself from view, but keeping his gun trained on Castiel. "Sit up straight. Try to do anything, and I'll blow your brains out."

Without another word, the car was moving. Quickly. A moment of shock passed before the cops began scrambling out of the way, trying desperately to get out of the way. It seemed that nobody was going to save Castiel. Suddenly, the car hit something, and Castiel had the sinking feeling it wasn't a speed bump. He could hear cracking, and a not-so-distant screaming. Before the second tire could arrive, the noise stopped completely.

After a few seconds of loud banging originating from the crowd now behind them, Dean sat back up. He smiled a wicked smile, and replaced the gun down next to him. With his now free hand, Dean reached for Castiel, grabbing his long coat and pulling, forcing Castiel closer to him. His strength was surprising, as he pulled Castiel away from the door. With Castiel's protective ball now effectively destroyed, Dean lay his hand on Castiel's thigh, making him cringe.

"So cooperative," Dean said, the tone of voice making Castiel release a panicked whimper, "I like that."

Castiel didn't have the courage to shake him off.

For what seemed like a lifetime, they drove on empty streets. Rush hour had come and gone, and Dean took every advantage of the lack of traffic. His speed was terrifying, and his constant weaving from lane to lane was making Castiel sick. The hand that had originally been just above his knee had travelled up, now only inches from his hipbone. What had started as quick-paced, adrenalin –fueled, near hyperventilating breaths had reduced themselves to exhausted rasps. Castiel's shoulder's ached, and his hands were completely asleep from being held above Castiel's head for so long. His head was still thumping, and Castiel could have sworn he caught a glimpse of a massive purple bruise forming at his temple in the mirror. His nose was running, and the occasional tear still found its way dripping down Castiel's cheeks.

The sun had just dipped below a line of mountains far in the distance when Dean pulled off the freeway, lowering his speed in order to safely maneuver his car through the darkening trees. With a swift turn of his wrist, Dean turned off the engine and removed the keys, placing them in his pocket. The car was eerily quiet, the only sound audibly was Castiel's breath.

"We'll stop here, just for tonight. I don't love sleeping in the car, but we're still a little too close to Kansas for us to just stop anywhere we want." Dean looked over at Castiel, who had frozen the moment Dean started talking. "There isn't much room in here, so we'll celebrate our…" Dean's hand traveled further, grabbing Castiel between his legs possessively, while keeping eye contact with Castiel, " _togetherness_ another time."

Castiel whined, cringing away from Dean's touch. Of course, that only made Dean tighten his hold, giving Castiel a firm squeeze. For his efforts, Dean was rewarded with a surprised gasp and a hardening in his hand.

"Like that?" he chucked, repeating the action.

"N-no," Castiel stammered, his request accompanied by a pained whine, "please, stop."

"You're right," Dean nodded, "not tonight."

With that, Dean quickly removed his hand from Castiel's groin, and left the car. Castiel turned his head to see Dean open the trunk and start removing boxes, bringing them the backseat. After a few minutes of unloading, Dean came back around the passenger door and opened it swiftly, staring down at Castiel. Without a word he reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small key. As he unlocked Castiel's cuffs, he pulled his gun out of his waistband and pointed it at Castiel.

"Get out of the car." Dean said, staring down at Castiel, who was trying to rub the feeling back into his hands. Castiel balked, but obeyed, climbing out of the car and trying his best not to stumble on the uneven ground. Dean moved his gun to the back of Castiel head and pushed, forcing Castiel to walk forward, towards the rear of the car. In this position, Castiel found himself standing above the trunk.

"Get in." Dean ordered, pushing Castiel closer to the open trunk.

"W-what?" Castiel stammered.

"Well I can't have you sleep in the cab, now can I?" With that, Dean pushed Castiel forward, forcing him into the trunk of the car. He smiled, "sleep tight, sweetheart," and slammed the trunk shut, enveloping Castiel in darkness. He could hear, after a few seconds of silence, the door of the car close.

For a moment, Castiel couldn't move. He couldn't think. He was trapped in the trunk of a kidnapping, murdering rapist. Who was probably, if not certainly, going to kill him.

 _'_ _Fantastic,'_ Castiel thought to himself, _'just fantastic. Good job, Castiel. Really. Incredible.'_ In a sudden burst of anger and frustration, Castiel beat the door of the trunk with everything he had. He beat his fists against it, and did what he could to kick it with his knees and feet. Castiel didn't care if Dean heard him. He was just so… so _angry_. He screamed, less in an effort to attract help, but more to release some of his sudden fury. Castiel could not _believe_ that he had allowed this to happen to him. He hadn't even tried to escape when he had the chance. He had even helped his captor to escape. Certainly he could have done something to stop him. Maybe said something to Balthazar? If he had known, maybe the police could have prepared for a hostage situation… The possibilities were endless.

Castiel continued to beat against the trunk, and made himself as loud as he could. He screamed. He yelled. He shouted curses and insults, ignorant to the fact that tears were steadily streaming down his face. He kept it up as long as he could, but exhaustion soon overtook him. His rage had left him as quickly as it had come, and all Castiel was left with was his tears. He curled up in a ball, silently thankful that he hadn't been made to sleep in the cab with Dean. Castiel cried and squeezed his eyes shut.

He fell asleep crying, wishing that he could just go home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry that it's been so long. Ya'll know how it is. Shit gets crazy. Anyway, you all know the drill. I own zilch, please tell me what I've done/can do that you'd like/you hate more than anything you've ever seen in your entire life.**

Dean woke up with a raging headache and a deep hunger. He also really needed to pee. He stole out of the car in the early morning just long enough to relieve himself, and then jumped back into the car. A moment of silence passed before Dean burst out laughing. He laughed until tears of joy ran down his face. He was finally free. He could do whatever he wanted. It didn't even matter to Dean where he ended up. He had his car, the open road…. And a man in the trunk. Dreams come true. Three years of being an attractive younger man in prison made Dean physically ache for some control over somebody _else_. He needed to feel that power. And boy, did he feel powerful. He had complete control over a nameless man in the trunk, who would do anything Dean said if he pushed him far enough.

Speaking of the nameless man in the trunk, Dean didn't hear anything. He wasn't deaf; he heard the commotion that the man had put on the previous night. Not that Dean hadn't been surprised- he'd certainly done this before. But that didn't stop the fact that Dean's new friend had kept him up much longer than Dean would have preferred. Dean decided that instead of yanking the man back into the cab, still half asleep, he would leave him in the trunk, at least for a while. Let him squirm.

Castiel woke with a start when he was momentarily airborne in the trunk of the car. For a moment Castiel was incredibly confused, having forgotten where he was, or at least hoping that it was a dream. But, of course it hadn't been. Castiel slammed back down, blasting away any sleep that would have been clouding Castiel's mind. The sudden terror Castiel felt was short lived, gone as soon as Castiel realized how sore he was. There was deep chaffing on his wrists from being handcuffed for so long the previous day, and his legs and shoulders ached from his awkward sleeping position. His head throbbed, both from an uncomfortable sleep and having been hit over the head. He was also starving. He hadn't eaten much the day before, and it was starting to catch up with him. His angry, empty stomach growled and constricted, making Castiel curl up tighter, pressing his hands against his abdomen to try to fool his stomach. It didn't work even close to as well as Castiel would have hoped. After pressing so hard on his stomach, Castiel realized with dread how much he really, really needed to go to the bathroom.

Castiel pounded weakly against the trunk, as he crossed and re-crossed his legs. He continued to hit the trunk for what felt like a lifetime, but in reality wasn't probably more than fifteen minutes. Castiel felt like his bladder was going to burst, making Castiel's panic return with full force. What would Dean do to him if he made the trunk of his car smell like piss? Not to mention he really didn't want Dean to find him like that. Wet with his own urine like a child.

"HEY!" Castiel yelled, doing his best to make his voice heard over the engine, "Let me out! Let me out of here!"

Castiel wasn't completely sure, but he could have sworn that he heard a, "Shut up," come from the cab of the car. This wasn't good. This _really_ was not good.

"I need to pee!" Castiel yelled, making his voice as loud and intelligible as he could. Before he could finish taking in another breath to keep shouting, Castiel felt the car suddenly swerve off the road and stop, the sudden change in speed giving Castiel whiplash. He heard the driver's side door open and slam close. Before he had a chance to grasp what was happening, the trunk had been flung open, and Castiel had been pulled from inside like he was a paper doll. Castiel was blinded by the sudden light, and incredibly disoriented. It didn't help that he had been flung over Dean's shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"I swear to god if you pee in my car I'll cut your dick off," Dean said harshly, his anger evident in the tone of his voice. He dropped Castiel behind a bush, and took a few steps back, mostly to check on his car. By the time Dean had assessed the lack of damage done to the interior of his trunk and had turned back to Castiel, he had already missed the show. Castiel was already yanking his belt back into place, a relieved expression on his face.

"Thanks," Castiel said, looking down at the floor as he approached Dean. He kept his eyes cast downward as he stretched his muscles, doing his best to rub the soreness out of his limbs.

"Now I'm going to give you a choice," Dean said, "you can either go back in the trunk, or," he stepped closer to Castiel, his pupils widening, and his jeans started to tent, "you can come up front with me."

Castiel took a surprised step backwards, trying his best to distance himself from his captor. "Do I really have a choice?" he asked cautiously.

Dean shrugged, "Sure, why not. We'll stop at a motel tonight, so we'll be spending some quality time together then."

Castiel gulped, "I'll take the truck then."

Dean nodded, and led Castiel back, and waited patiently while Castiel climbed in. As soon as Castiel had tucked his legs inside the space, Dean slammed the door down, and Castiel was enveloped in darkness.

For hours, Castiel lay in the trunk. He was starving, sore, and afraid. He knew it was only a matter of time before Dean would pull into a motel and do whatever he wanted with his hostage. Castiel was so exhausted at this point that he wasn't sure whether or not he would even be able to fight back. Besides, maybe just letting Dean do whatever he wanted would make it go faster. At least then Dean would be less likely to hurt him in an attempt to keep him still while he had his way.

Or maybe Castiel could appeal to Dean's good side. Sure, he had murdered countless people, and used most of their bodies against them. But maybe Castiel would be a vigilant hero who persevered through the toughest times, managing a daring escape while his captor took a whiz in a bush. Yeah right.

Castiel hoped that there was still something human deep down in the monster that had him locked in the trunk of his car. The last person found dead three years ago was found naked and bleeding in a motel room, bruises and lacerations covering their body. The poor thing had apparently died less than an hour before the authorities had arrived. Castiel couldn't remember now whether Dean's last kill was a man or a woman.

He wished that he had paid more attention, now.

Even though it had been three years since that picture was plastered on every news station, Castiel still remembered it. The pictures had given him nightmares. Hell, they had given everyone nightmares. Now, it would probably be him that starred in the nightmares. Knife wounds littering his body and blood flowing down his skin like rivers. There would be deep circles under his bloodshot eyes. Even in death, his horrified, open mouth would let out a silent scream up to heaven. Some kind-hearted officer would slip his eyelids closed; possibly trying to replicate a sleep that nobody would believe had existed for days. Then, of course, someone else would slide them open again for the sake of pictures that were truthful to the scene. Maybe the police officers would leave the blood streaks staining the walls and the dark pools on the dusty carpet for some unfortunate maid to clean up.

Castiel thought back to his thought process before getting into Dean's car. He hadn't wanted someone to find him. Now Castiel knew that at least a bullet to the head would have been a clean, honorable death. Now his mutilated corpse would be burned into everyone's eyelids. Those who had memories of a living Castiel would suddenly remember nothing but the way his mouth had been frozen open, his last mark on the world a scream that brought no one. Castiel's mother, who had once combed her delicate fingers through her son's dark hair would see nothing now but the clotted blood dried in the dark matts of her child's locks. Balthazar, who would see Castiel's once bright eyes turned to stone.

The sheets that cradled his corpse would be soaked in blood, and would likely be thrown away. The motel would probably just replace the carpeting in the room, maybe even the wallpaper that would be dripping in Castiel's blood. The motel may even become some sort of twisted sort of tourist attraction: Dean Winchester's first victim after escaping prison died here! What's his name now haunts the very room you are now staying in!

Delightful.


	5. Chapter 5

**A quick note: due to some crazy computer problems, I actually almost completely rewrote the last chapter for no reason. I liked aspects of both versions so I combined them. If y'all would like you can check that out, since there are some add-ons that I'm pretty proud of, please feel free. Also, I don't have much experience writing smut ("yes! finally! It's about time!") so if anyone would like to share some wisdom I'd love to hear it. Thanks to cass'sangelmj for being the first to review. As per usual, I own nothing, blah blah, please review. Thanks for being so patient with me.**

Dean pulled off the surface street and into the motel parking lot. It was a dingy little place; one that Dean knew wouldn't have reliable security cameras or nosy staff. He stepped out of the car, and closed his door firmly behind him. Without a backwards glace at the trunk, Dean strolled to the front door.

The front desk was manned by an older woman with wrinkly, crepe skin and a very powerfully colored eyeshadow. The woman was clearly bored, hunched over the old desk computer with glazed eyes.

"Excuse me," Dean said in his most polite southern drawl, "I'd like to rent a room. Just for tonight, if you don't mind."

She looked up, her disapproving stare fixated on Dean. "Single or double?"

"Double, please."

Dean could hear her fake nails clacking on the keyboard, and a familiar metallic jingle as a key appeared on the desk.

"Room 27," the woman said, her attention already fixated on her computer monitor.

 _'_ _Well,'_ Dean though appreciatively, _'this is going to be easy.'_ He grabbed the keys off the desk and pocketed them as he headed out the door and back into the parking lot. The sun was beginning to fall, and a dusty darkness made the shadows look larger and more oppressive as the light of day slowly seeped away.

Dean reached his car, which was one of few in the lot, and emptied the cab. There were two cardboard boxes on the floor, which Dean carefully balanced on his arm as he turned to his room. He kicked the door shut, and easily found Room 27. With a turn of his wrist the door was unlocked and open. Dean dumped the boxes on the floor next to the door, and headed back out to the parking lot. He retrieved his gun from the cup holder, tucked it into his waistband, briskly walked around to the trunk, and pulled it open.

The car had been parked for what had to have been at least fifteen minutes. Castiel had become accustomed to the usual stop-and-go of traffic signals, and the slow going he had learned to attribute the occasional drive through they visited. This wasn't either of those. When the car had first stopped, Castiel hadn't thought anything of it. The sudden lack of the now familiar rumble of the car engine is what had caught Castiel's attention, and now he was paralyzed in anticipation. Any minute now the door would open, he would be dragged off to god knows where, and then…

Castiel had tried to avoid thinking about it. Unfortunately he could only focus on his increasing hunger for so long before his mind started to drift. Castiel had never really seen himself as one with an overactive imagination, but he had managed to think of countless scenarios as the seemingly endless hours passed.

Three years ago, Dean Winchester's last victim was found in a motel room off the freeway. Castiel saw himself as them, his picture plastered on every news station imaginable. Just like three years ago, a sweet picture of him would be shown first, then the gory crime scene photos leaked by a cop hoping to get some sort of reward. Thin streaks of blood would decorate the walls while large pools of red would have stained the dusty motel room carpet. He would be covered in blood; his eyes bloodshot, with deep circles under his eyes highlighting his otherwise drained face

Lacerations and bruises would decorate his nakedness, showing the path of the endless abuse he had suffered. A sheet would be draped over his genitals, preserving any dignity Castiel may have left.

He also thought about how he had paused outside his building, so close to ignorant safety. How he had ignored his gut feeling about the very car he was now trapped inside. If only he had gone inside to make the call to Balthazar instead of stopping on the street. Castiel knew that he had ignored his many options to keep himself safe.

Castiel couldn't stop crying. They were quiet tears, only occasionally accompanied by whimpers or a rare wet, hiccupping sob. He wrapped his arms around his shaking shoulders and tried to convince himself that he was somewhere else. It didn't work. Castiel was starving, his empty stomach twisting and knotting angrily. He felt like he was going to throw up from his overwhelming fear. The anticipation was making him hysterical, and the stress was both paralyzing and making Castiel restless at the same time. He _needed_ something to happen. Castiel didn't think he could endure this for much longer.

His prayers were soon answered. The trunk lid opened, washing Castiel's petrified form in the dusty light of the evening. Castiel yelped, and threw himself as far away from the opening as he could, which wasn't nearly far enough for the man's comfort. He could barely see, due to a combination of both the sudden light and the incredible amount of moisture clouding his eyesight.

Dean looked down at Castiel for a moment before reaching into the trunk and prying him out. Castiel thrashed, trying to escape Dean's grip. Dean easily lifted Castiel off the ground, holding him awkwardly in his arms. He managed to shut the trunk, and then made his way to his room. Castiel screamed, only to have a hand be clamped over his mouth tightly before he could alert the few occupants of the small motel that he was in desperate need of assistance. Castiel swung his arms and legs, trying to connect with his captor. He managed to kick him in the knee, which made Dean grunt in pain.

"You're going to regret that," he growled, making Castile freeze. "That's better."

Dean threw the motel room door open and slammed it shut behind him, before flinging Castiel onto the bed. Castiel gathered himself and threw himself off the bed and made a mad dash for the door. Dean effortlessly grabbed him before he made it two feet, and pushed him back down onto the off-color comforter. Dean held Castiel down, his face pushed down to the bed.

Castiel heard an all too familiar metallic jingle before Dean wrenched his arms above his head, and cuffed his wrists to the headboard. Castiel pulled against them, trying to free himself. Of course, he found himself securely attached to the bed. Castiel felt the bed dip as Dean stood up on his knees, and pulled Castiel by the hips up and then backward against his pelvis. Castiel could feel Dean's length against him, and Dean's calloused hands pulling at his pants.

"P-please," Castiel whimpered. He was frozen in place, unable to fight against the man holding his waist with one arm and wrenching his waistband down to his thighs. "You don't have to do this" Castiel tried to reason, "I'm sure you could get anyone to have sex with you completely voluntarily. You don' have to-"

"This doesn't have anything to do with sex," Dean said, his voice low and grating. "Don't be stupid. Rape is about _power._ "

Dean proceeded to wrench Castiel's boxers down to join his pants pooling around his knees. Castiel flinched when he felt Dean's cold spit against his hole.

"N-no please-" Castiel begged, as Dean yanked his own pants down just far enough to expose his length, and pulled Castiel's cheeks apart and lined himself up.

"The less you fight me on this the better it'll go for you." Dean pushed himself in roughly, making Castiel yelp in pain. Dean reached down and tangled his fingers in Castiel's hair and pushed his face into the bed, muffling any noise he could make. Dean didn't waste any time, thrusting in and out of Castiel with unparalleled force. Castiel hardened unwillingly, despite the sharp pain he felt in his backside. Dean grabbed Castiel's erection, and circled his fist around the base, squeezing and pumping until Castiel came. Dean continued to thrust into Castiel for what felt like forever. Finally Dean groaned in release, as he flooded Castiel.

"Move and I'll cut you." Dean said firmly, and crossed the room to the stacked boxes by the door. Castiel shook uncontrollably, holding his position on the bed until Dean came back and grabbed the flesh of Castiel's ass in his hand. Castiel felt cold metal slip through his opening as the plug settled and held firmly in Castiel's hole.

Dean didn't wait for Castiel to get used to the feeling before he pulled him onto the floor onto his knees. Castiel's cheeks were stained with tears, and he looked up at his abuser with pleading eyes. Dean grabbed Castiel's chin and held firmly, pulling Castiel's mouth open. He slipped his thumb into the wetness of Castiel's mouth.

"Suck." Dean commanded. Castiel stared up at him dumbly for a moment, before sucking on the digit. Dean looked down coldly, watching the obedience play out. After a few minutes of this, he withdrew his hand from Castiel's face and grabbed his hair and pulled backwards. Castiel tilted his face up, Dean's cock only inches from his still open mouth. Castiel squeezed his lips together in silent refusal. Dean paused, before taking a step back. Castiel sighed in relief, before the open-handed slap connected with his cheek. The whole side of Castiel's face burned, but Castiel refused to take Dean into his mouth. He was still shaking, his fear barely overpowered by his pride.

"Don't test me." Dean growled, glaring at Castiel. When he received no open-mouthed obedience, he punched Castiel in the cheek, the force of which threw Castiel onto the ground. Castiel lay stunned on the floor as Dean lifted his foot onto his throat, lightly pressing down onto the man's larynx. Castiel went bug eyed, and began to cough for air desperately. Dean continued to apply pressure to Castiel's throat.

"I could kill you right now." Dean said calmly, his voice devoid of any emotion. "It would be so easy. And I think we both know I wouldn't lose much sleep over it. I'm sure there is someone else here who would be more," Dean pulled his gun out from where it had been stowed and pressed it against Castiel's temple, "cooperative."


	6. Chapter 6

**It's awfully silent out there in the void... I feel like a desperate hoe but someone please tell me how it's going. My writing feels so repetitive and predictable, which is probably due to the fact that I read it over and over again. Anyway, here's chapter six. I know, it's been too long since I updated. So as always, Supernatural doesn't belong to me.**

I'm sure there is someone else here who would be more cooperative." Dean smiled devilishly, and kept the gun aimed at Castiel's skull. Castiel winced, squeezing his eyes shut and whimpered. As he opened his eyes the floodgates opened, and a river of tears escaped from both eyes, leaking down the sides of his face to drip down onto the carpet.

Castiel coughed pathetically, his vision beginning to darken for lack of oxygen. He whined as he lay frozen on the floor.

"Now," Dean said, "can I count on some cooperation?" Castiel did the best he could to nod, which prompted Dean to lift his foot from its place on Castiel's throat. Castiel gasped for air, and coughed before sitting up pathetically. Dean gave him a moment to regain his breath before he ordered him up onto his knees.

"If you bite me," Dean warned, "you'll be sorry." With that, he pulled Castiel's chin down with one hand and gripped his hair with the other as he thrust into Castiel's mouth.

Castiel was too terrified, too mortified, too disgusted to do anything. He simply balanced on his knees, frozen, as his captor defiled his mouth and poked the back of his throat. Dean pulled Castiel back and forth by the hair, and moved his hips, but other than that Castiel didn't move. Dean growled in frustration.

"Suck or I'll cut an ear off." He threatened. Castiel felt that the loss of an ear was an excellent motivator, and hollowed his cheeks as Dean continued. It didn't last long before Dean started to pick up the pace, his strokes becoming less controlled and more erratic and forced. Castiel gagged as Dean's head jammed itself down his throat.

Dean groaned, and Castiel felt an explosion of bitter fluid filter down his throat. He tried to pull back in mortification, but Dean held firmly onto Castiel's hair with one hand, and the back of his neck with the other, keeping Castiel's nose buried in a bush of dark hair above Dean's piece.

When the last of Dean's orgasm had dripped down Castiel's throat, Dean let go and let Castiel collapse onto the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. Dean sighed contentedly, and pulled his jeans back up and fastened his belt.

"Not too bad. We'll work on it." Dean assured, wrenching Castiel up off the floor and dropping him onto the bed. He retrieved the cuffs and attached them the Castiel's wrists. Then he crossed the room to the boxes and pulled out a ball gag and strip of cloth, and returned to the bed. Dean fastened the gag around Castiel's head and tied the cloth over his eyes to serve as a blindfold. Castiel lay, with a small trickle of blood seeping its way down his thigh, on the bed. Dean collected his pocketknife from a box and cut Castiel's shirt off and pulled his pants all the way off, leaving him naked and trembling on the bed.

"Have to leave you ready for round two if I wake up at some point, am I right?" Dean laughed, smacking Castiel's bruised ass. Castiel tensed, curling himself into as tight a ball as he could.

Dean stood, triumphant, over the bed. Sure, the blowjob hadn't been perfect, but that was okay. This pathetic little man would get better once Dean figured out a better motivator for his improvement. The fact is, the quality didn't really matter. What mattered was that Dean had all the power.

Dean strode to the bathroom with an extra bounce in his step. He had done this enough times to know that the man wouldn't try going anywhere. Dean could have left the door wide open and he wouldn't have moved from the bed. He was blind, mute, and naked. The fear of punishment and the physical pain would leave his hostage frozen on the sticky comforter, no matter how long of a shower Dean took.

Castiel laid still, his heart still pounding. He ached everywhere. His ass, his throat, his jaw. His hips hurt from being gripped as hard as they had been, and his wrists hurt from the cuffs. Hell, his scalp hurt from his hair being yanked on. Not to mention the monumental damage to his pride.

Castiel heard the water running in the shower, but he didn't dare move. Even if he wanted to, Castiel wasn't sure he would be able to physically stand up. He had no idea how long Dean was going to be in the shower, and he couldn't imagine the abuse he would endure if Dean came out and caught him trying to make a run for it. Besides, where would he go? He couldn't see or scream, and he was as naked as the day he was born. He had no idea where he was or how he would get home if he even managed to get away. Castiel wasn't a brave man to begin with, so the amount of courage it would take to escape was far beyond Castiel's grasp.

As Castiel listened to the thrum of the water in the bathroom, he tried to relax his aching muscles. He tried to take deep breaths and keep the ebbing panic attack at bay. However, when he heard a low, rasping voice from the shower, he couldn't help but cringe.

That son of a bitch was singing in the shower. He had just violated Castiel in the most intimate way possible and was so relaxed and happy that he was singing. Castiel couldn't make out the words, but he could tell that it definitely wasn't a dirge. Castiel was filled with a sudden burst of rage. How dare he? How dare this man put Castiel through this trauma and then _sing_? Dean was probably going to kill Castiel. Maybe even in this motel. The bed Castiel was laying in right now could be where they found his mutilated body, and his future murderer was singing some upbeat song in the shower.

A chill ran through Castiel as his rage changed to paralyzing fear. How many people had heard Dean sing before they died? This man was incredibly relaxed, despite the fact that he had just raped an innocent man. Dean really was a psychopath. Before, Castiel had hoped that maybe he would be able to reason with Dean. Even when Dean had raped him, Castiel had hoped that there was still a part of him that held some sort of humane kindness. But now Castiel knew that there was no humane part of this man. Dean was a monster.


	7. Chapter 7

**So this is pretty short, and doesn't include any Dean or Cas, but I still feel like it works without them. I'll try to get the next one up soon. Y'all know the drill. I own nothing, and I'd love some feedback. Thanks to the guest who sent me a note. I appreciate it!**

Agnes flipped through the channels at two in the morning, bored out of her mind. She had been working at the roadside motel for years, and this night was like all those before. Finally she settled on a news station, broadcasting the story of the poor young man who had been kidnapped by the newly escaped convict, Dean Winchester. Agnes looked at the picture of the Winchester and the Novak as they took up the screen. Castiel Novak was a sweet looking boy, and Agnes felt sympathy for the poor young man doomed to die a tragic, miserable death.

The young news anchor gave a warning, "Dean Winchester is believed to have left Kansas heading West in a black Chevy Impala. We ask that anyone who sees this man," again, the mugshot of the murderer filled the screen, "immediately call the police. Do not engage. Dean Winchester is a dangerous man and has a hostage. Castiel Novak could still be alive. If you have any information, please call the number at the bottom of the screen." A phone number flashed at the bottom of the screen as the young woman signed off.

Agnes cast her gaze out to the parking lot out of habit, checking for drug addicts shooting up or someone sleeping in their car. Her eyes caught on a dark car, its classic frame catching Agnes' attention. Was that an Impala? Agnes gulped, and did a quick google search to confirm her idea of what an Impala looks like.

Yes, the dark, ominous car parked in the lot was the same type preferred by a certain serial rapist and murderer. Agnes didn't want to jump to conclusions. Sure, that car wasn't exactly run-of-the-mill these days, but who knows? There were certainly some old-car enthusiasts in town.

Agnes cursed the lack of security in the small motel. There had to be a way for her to figure out if the man from earlier was the Winchester man. Unfortunately, no matter how hard Agnes racked her brain, she couldn't remember the details of the man's face. Not only had it been several hours ago, but Agnes' memory was not what it used to be.

Agnes was desperate for an idea. She couldn't very well knock on the front door and say, ' _Hello, I think you may be a serial rapist with a hostage you plan on brutally murdering. Can I get you some clean towels?'_ Agnes got up to pace, turning in her swivel chair. Agnes looked at herself in the large mirror on the back wall, staring into her own eyes.

Gods, if only she had been paying more attention when the man from earlier had come inside. But why would she have? There was no reason for her to. Besides, she had been preoccupied taking pictures.

 _The pictures._ Agnes reached for her phone with lightning speed, pulling up the photos. With the mirror behind her, maybe she had caught the stranger in her selfies.

' _Thank gods for youth culture'_ Agnes praised silently. She flipped through the pictures and nearly gasped aloud when she found what she was looking for. The mirror had caught Dean Winchester's reflection, which her phone had captured.

Agnes couldn't remember the number for tips on Dean, but she figured calling 911 would work just as well.


	8. Chapter 8

**So I've 10k words! I don't know, that's kind of cool, right? Anyways, here it is. As always, I own nothing and crave attention in order to justify my own existence.**

Dean stood, naked, over Castiel. The man on the bed was shaking violently, letting out the occasional whimper. Dean could hear his ragged breathing catching in his throat. Castiel made nonsensical words around his gag, begging for mercy. As per Dean's orders, Castiel was lying on his stomach, and Dean pressed his hand on Castiel's back, holding him still as he climbed on top of him to straddle his hips.

Dean combed his fingers through Castiel's dark hair gently, occasionally tugging slightly with handfuls filled with his hair. Castiel whined, but didn't do anything to fight Dean off. Dean moved his hand down Castiel's throat and down his spine, digging his nails into the lightly tanned skin and leaving bright red trails behind. Dean feigned gentleness; caressing Castiel's protruding hipbones and rubbing his bruised skin with his thumbs. He moved his hand down to fill them with handfuls of Castiel's round ass and pulled outward; revealing the plug still nestled deep within his tightness. Dean smiled cruelly, and gave the plug a small tug, making Castiel groan in pain and desperation. A small trickle of blood seeped out through the tears caused by Dean's thickness. Dean payed no mind, and instead jammed the plug in with all the force he could muster, making Castiel jut his hips forward and upwards, trying to escape.

Dean squeezed his knees together around Castiel's waist, keeping the smaller man secure underneath him. Castiel's breathing become even more irregular, and his shivering became even more evident. Dean released his grip on the plug, watching the ripples in Castiel's tight frame play out naturally before repeating the action and starting the process again. Castiel thrashed desperately, before Dean clamped his hand down around the back of his neck. Castiel froze, having been reminded of who was in charge.

Dean reached down to stroke himself, already painfully hard thanks to the man beneath him. It didn't take long before Dean was painting Castiel's back with ropes of sticky whiteness. Castiel flinched at the impact of the fluid, groaning in a mixture of disgust and embarrassment.

Dean dragged a finger through the mess, and used the hand planted on the back of Castiel's throat to pull his head upward. Dean reached around and slid his finger into Castiel's mouth, between the large gag and Castiel's parched lips, and forced him to suck. Castiel cleaned the finger, and Dean repeated the motion slowly until all of the mess had disappeared into Castiel's mouth.

Dean leaned down and placed his mouth on Castiel's throat. The skin was clammy and sweaty, but Dean bit down hard nonetheless. Castiel let out a frantic, choked yelp, but did nothing to deter Dean. Dean tasted Castiel's hot blood over his tongue and he punctured the skin. Dean did this to everyone he took for himself. It would take days to heal, and then would make a large scar at the base of the throat.

That's when he killed them. Once they had been marked as his permanently. Some people took longer than other's to heal, but Dean was happy to offer his hospitality. Dean loved the surge of adrenalin it gave him, and the clear mark of his control it created. Besides, it let the police know who killed the poor shmuck before them. Besides all the other cuts, bruises, and scrapes his victims presented, they always had a distinguished, teeth shaped scar on the base of their throat as it met their shoulder.

At first, Dean was just going to reclaim his power and then kill Castiel. But now that he was here, and the man's blood was spilling into his mouth, Dean knew that wasn't going to happen. In all honesty, he had forgotten how great it felt. To hold on to somebody for days- _weeks_ , even. To watch their will to fight against Dean drain away as they became accustomed to submission.

No, Dean was going to take his time with this one. He had spent three years squished underneath some sweaty oaf, or with indents from the shower floor marking up his knees, to just let this end so soon. What had this man been doing while he was locked up in a cage? Nothing. He hadn't made a single contribution to the world. What a jackass.

Dean sank his teeth in further, feeling a warm trickle make it way down his chin. Castiel was practically screaming, although he wasn't making enough noise that Dean was concerned. As Castiel moved his head, dean could see the large, round, wet stains on the pillow from Castiel's tears. Dean withdrew his teeth, sitting back up to watch the steady stream of blood stain the comforter.

Castiel was in agony. His shoulder throbbed painfully, and he could hear very little besides the ringing in his ears. The blindfold was soaked with tears, and sweat ran in rivulets down his neck. This reminded Castiel of something. Every previous victim of Dean Winchester had a newly healed scar on their neck. It wasn't explicitly said, but it was rather hard to ignore in the photos. A pink scar, newly healed, at the junction between the throat and the shoulder. Fresh and new, the last of the clotting and scabs fallen off.

In an odd moment of clarity, Castiel realized, 'That must be how he decides the timeline. The amount of time between disappearance and death was always irregular; something that, for someone who-at a certain level- craves routine, always struck me as a little odd. But of course it isn't about that. It's the stage of healing.'

Then, the moment was gone. Castiel's mind raced as the seconds ticked away. At some point Dean got up to wash the blood off his face and Castiel's hearing started to sharpen.

Castiel heard something odd, far off in the distance. The steady sound of freeway traffic had dwindled as the hours passed. Castiel wasn't surprised, as it must have been past two in the morning. But that sound? Castiel could have sworn it was a siren. As it came closer, Castiel was positive that the noise was, in fact, a cacophony of sirens. Suddenly, the water shut off, and he could hear Dean quickly make his way across the room. Castiel could only guess that Dean had his ear firmly planted his ear against the door."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. God damn it." Dean growled. "No. Must be something else. There's no way." Castiel could tell Dean was starting to get anxious, his cool demeanor slipping away as the sirens continued to approach.

It wasn't long before the sirens reached the motel. Instead of continuing down the road, the sirens finished their journey. To Castiel, it sounded like they were right outside.

Dean was practically running around the room, gathering what little lings he had. Dean ripped Castiel up from the bed, holding him upright. Castiel froze, Dean's hands planted firmly on both shoulders as he deliberated. He pulled the gag off, allowing Castiel full control of his mouth once again.

Castiel didn't waste a moment. He screamed as loud as he could, "Please! Somebody! We're in here! Plea-"

Dean clamped his hand over Castiel's mouth, releasing one shoulder. "For god's sakes, shut the fuck up. I need to think. I think I can get away, but not with you. Damn it."

Castiel whispered underneath the hand, "Please. Please, I'm begging you, let me go home."

A booming voice called through the door, "Dean Winchester! We have you surrounded! Send Castiel Novak outside, now."

Dean growled and yanked Castiel close to him, and whispered, "I'll come back for you. Don't think for a second that this is in any way over. Tell them I ran as soon as I heard the sirens and left my car. I went through your phone. I'll kill all of them, Castiel Novak."

Castiel gulped. He loved order, especially in his phone. Besides memos information about himself, there were names, numbers, addresses, places of business… it would be more than simple to track everyone down.

"They'll catch you. There's nowhere to go." Castiel said.

"I just got out of prison. I'm not going back." Dean said with confidence. "Oh, and one more thing." Dean spun Castiel, and pulled him close, wrapping an arm around his throat. Castiel was confused, still blind, until he felt the sharp tip of a blade drag through his thin skin. It felt like words were being carved into his chest.

Before he knew it, he was thrusted away, and he collided with the door. Castiel fumbled, and threw the door open.

"Hold your fire!" A firm voice commanded. Arms wrapped themselves gently around Castiel, a blanket wrapping itself around Castiel as the blindfold was softly and mindfully removed from around his head. Castiel saw a mob of police cars, their light flashing.

"He-he's gone." Castiel said, his voice quivering, "He ran off as soon as he heard the sirens."

"Don't worry," an officer said. The man had a large gun in his hand, and an equally large, if not larger, bushy moustache nestled under a spotted nose. "You're safe now. He can't hurt you."

Before Castiel could take anything in, he was led to an ambulance and was lifted inside. Castiel turned, and absorbed as much as he could before the doors closed and he was rushed to the hospital. Men in large, blocky vests were rushing into the motel room, their guns trained on anything and everything. There was also a group of men with large guns of their own trained on the door in case a certain someone made a break for freedom.

A large cuff was placed around Castiel's arm, and a needle was placed into the vain in his arm and taped. A myriad of doctors and nurses busied themselves around him, as one helped him onto a stretcher. He heard the heavy doors close and felt movement as the ambulance sped off. A patch was placed over the gaping hole on his shoulder, and some salve was spread over a large cut on Castiel's face.

Castiel could feel fluids being pumped into him through the needle in the inside of his elbow. He clenched the edge of the blanket around his shoulders, lowering it just enough to allow the doctor's access to the wound on his neck. The light and the movement was too much for Castiel, his adrenalin and anxiety making his vision blur as tears filled his eyes.

The warmth of sleep seemed to wrap its arms around Castiel, and Castiel knew he was not one to refuse. He allowed his eyes to slip gently closed, and allowed the blanket to slip down.

Castiel was on the edge of consciousness when he heard a gasp, as a hand was laid gently on his chest, "Oh my god, do you see that"

"What does it say?"

"I think it says, ' _MINE_ '"


	9. Chapter 9

**Two weeks after release**

Castiel still had not been allowed to leave the hospital, which left Castiel torn. On one hand he was absolutely mortified of the idea of him returning to his apartment. The idea of being alone in his quiet, still, empty apartment. Where Dean knew he lived and slept and was alone. There would be nothing to stop him from killing Castiel's landlady for shits and giggles, taking her key, waltzing into his apartment, and stabbing Castiel until he bled to death. But on the other, he just wanted to go home. To return to normal life and pretend none of this had ever happened. To be somewhere that resembled safety. Not to mention, if he were at home he would have something not unlike privacy. An hour never passed when Castiel wasn't kept company by someone. The police officer outside his door seemed to be a permanent fixture. Balthazar had barely left Castiel's side since he had been contacted about Castiel's return to Lawrence. Castiel's mother, an elderly, kind-hearted woman who had burst into tears the moment her eyes landed on her son, came in and visited every day, but the hospital atmosphere was too much for her, so she didn't stay around the clock. After giving him a day to recuperate, the police had a never-ending list of questions and assurances for Castiel.

"Did he say anything about where he would be going next? You said he left as soon as he heard the sirens? Where did, what is, when will, can you," the questions started to blend together for Castiel, as he tried to pull together a story that made sense to him. No, he didn't know why, or where, or how. Yes, he could identify his attacker as Dean Winchester. No, he didn't know why the man had carved the word "mine" into his chest, but considering the connotation of the word, Castiel thought he could certainly make a guess.

He was referred a trauma councilor to help him process what had happened to him and move on. The woman had small, narcissistic glasses she kept perched on the bridge of her tiny nose while she took notes on what Castiel said while he answered her questions about his experiences and his feelings and his mindset after the fact. Dr. Delima asked him questions and gave some surprisingly good advice for his all-too-often attacks of pure terror and advised him of coping mechanisms.

"Of course," she would say in her thick Hungarian accent, "we can't expect to get better right away. These things take time. The important thing to focus on is healing, and not trying to rush the process."

Castiel would agree with her with a small nod and a shy smile, to which she rightfully took as her cue to leave. Every day, after their session, she would give him a comforting smile as she began to close the door behind her and told him, "I have faith in you, Mr. Novak."

The worst was the doctors, with their endless examinations of his damaged body. The rape kit, complete with swabs, samples, and photographs, stored in a neat little box in a freezer for later testing. Daily treatments of his wounds left Castiel feeling degraded and exposed. Embarrassed and ashamed. A large, purple bruise on his temple only darkened as the days went on, and showed no sign of healing any time soon. The chaffed skin around his wrists was doing better everyday thanks to a freezing cold cream that was spread on the raw skin three times a day and held onto the skin with light, thin gauze.

Thankfully, they stayed away from the worst of his physical wounds. The itchy stitches holding the rips in Castiel's anal tissue was a constant bother for Castiel. The doctors had, god bless them, drugged Castiel while sewing the damage up, so Castiel wasn't forced to endure such an intrusion. The stitches, which could be removed anywhere from three days to three weeks after, would be removed any day now. Castiel was fortunate, they told him.

Dean Winchester had only raped him once from behind, once in his mouth.

Castiel was alive, and physically unbroken.

It was over.

Castiel knew they were wrong. About it being over, at least. Dean Winchester had never shown any sign of giving up easy, and Dean was clearly very possessive about his new toy. For god sakes, the man had carved his ownership of Castiel into his body. The doctors told Castiel that, given the depth of the cuts used to build the word, it would probably never completely heal. It was, in this way, unlike the bite mark in Castiel's shoulder. Every day the wound healed better. "It may leave a scar," one doctor told Castiel, but it would be "mostly unnoticeable."

Not one person ever mentioned the fact that Dean was more than likely going to come back for Castiel.

 **One month after release**

Castiel really shouldn't have worried about his return to his apartment being unsafe. Surprisingly, being the victim of an infamous kidnapping, raping, murdering psychopath made the police feel very strongly about protecting a person. For the first few nights after his return, two guards stayed in Castiel's living room while he tried to sleep in the next room. Then, they migrated to the lobby of the apartment building. The residents of the building soon became accustomed to the guards, as Castiel soon became famous as 'Dean Winchester's First Escapee' and was known across the country.

The guards, in addition to protecting Castiel from a vicious murderer, kept away the masses of TV reporters, journalists, writers, talk-show-hosts, podcasters, blog-runners, twitter-ers, and general gawkers. "Castiel Mania" or, "Novapocalypse" as some preferred, spread across the nation. Everyone wanted to know about how Castiel had survived. How he had escaped. What he had endured.

Castiel avoided the press coverage like the plague. He refused to partake in interviews. He didn't watch the news, read the paper, or listen to the radio. He barely went out. Partly for fear of Dean, of course, but all Castiel wanted was to forget about everything that had happened to him, and such a thing was impossible when there were screaming 'fans' outside his window with signs made out of cheap, glossy poster board.

 **Three months after release**

Castiel had started drinking about two months after Dean had released him. The remembering was awful. Castiel had nightmares, flashbacks, and anxiety attacks. He was short in temper, and distanced himself from his friends. Castiel loved them, but he was suffocating. The obsession regarding Castiel's escape had somewhat died down, but his protective detail hadn't slackened. Castiel turned to locking himself in his apartment, not letting Balthazar, his mother, or his dutiful guards inside to check on him. He stopped going to work. Stopped going outside.

Eventually, he stopped sleeping. Empty bottles were left everywhere, moldy pizza boxes stacked in every available corner and crevice. Castiel kept his blinds closed, keeping his apartment dark and stuffy. Castiel sunk into a deep depression, barely eating, rarely sleeping, and drinking until he passed out. The next morning, Castiel would wake up feeling like shit, would vomit until his throat burned and he felt like someone had just punched him in the gut, and then would continue drinking until he would pass out and start the cycle again.

One night, while feeling particularly shitty, Castiel decided he wanted to go for walk. Alone. And buy a nice, sleek gun, and blow his brains out in an alley. Despite the fact that he had received no threat from Winchester, the police still felt that it was only a matter of time before he showed up to reclaim his prize. Castiel's security detail never left him alone, and would certainly never allow him to go for a walk by himself. It was even less likely that they would let Castiel put his brain matter on the sidewalk

At two in the morning, Castiel opened his blinds for the first time in three months. He opened his window, unscrewed the screen, and crawled through. The night air hit Castiel full force, and Castiel allowed himself to drop down into the alley running behind his apartment. Castiel was by no means coordinated, but managed to land without shattering all the bones in his legs, which was all Castiel could have really hoped for. His right ankle felt a little funny, but Castiel refused to be deterred by something so inconsequential. Castiel stood, already seeing a light at the end of his dismal tunnel. With a grin, Castiel began walking towards the abandoned warehouse a few blocks away, where Castiel had heard rumors that there was a man who sold guns and didn't ask questions.


	10. Chapter 10

**I didn't say this in the last chapter, so I figure I better do it here. I know. I'm a bad person. I didn't update this for a really long time. Like, a stupid long time. But thank you to everyone who stuck around, and special thanks the guest user and Pyroleigh for commenting on the story so soon after the update. I haven't gotten a whole lot of comments, and two in such a short span of time really made this update happen. I'm a total attention whore, and knowing that someone is on the other side of my computer screen makes it seem a little less like a scream into the void. So thank you, to the both of you beautiful people. And you know, the rest of you who won't talk to me.**

 **As always, I am obligated to say I own nothing, although if I did I certainly wouldn't be writing shitty fanfiction for the internet. If any of you want to tell me your thoughts, opinions, concerns, requests, etc., feel free to make your thoughts known. They'll probably make me write the next chapter faster.**

 **Alright, are you all ready? I am about to do a magic trick. Voila! A wild moose appears out of nowhere! Where did he come from?**

Sam really didn't enjoy arms dealing. Sure, he was more willing to operate the family business on the customer level as opposed to all the other things went into the operation, but he would have preferred not do it at all. The constant feeling of being on edge, like he was being watched by a thousand pairs of eyes unsettled him. Of course, Sam knew he wasn't really in any danger. His older brother was very protective of him, and would never allow him to be there if there was any possibility of Sam getting hurt. Fortunately, the brothers didn't have a whole lot to worry about. Their clientele was mostly made up of prostitutes who wanted to feel little safer and minor-league criminals who wanted an untraceable weapon. The big dogs were dealt with outside of town, and were handled by much more capable men than Sam.

It really didn't bother him, though. Not that part of it. Sam was just generally uncomfortable with the whole law breaking thing. It felt incredibly dishonest, and Sam doubted his mother, whom Sam had never really been able to know, would approve. But both Sam's father and his older brother desperately wanted Sam to be a part of the 'family business,' however illegitimate the business may be.

Oh well. Sam supposed this was just his lot in life.

Sam stood behind his immaculately-kept counter cleaning a sleek black CZ 75 and taking comfort in the mindless task. It had been relatively quiet recently, only because the huge rush was over. In all honesty, while Dean Winchester terrified Sam to a degree, his escape from prison had improved Sam's family business dramatically. Of course, it was also Dean's family business, so they would be sharing a portion of the profits. Sam loved his older brother dearly, but god. What a fucking psychopath. After his escape, everyone in town wanted a handgun they didn't know how to use to keep hidden under their pillows. And hey, if that's what made them feel safe, then it was certainly alright by Sam.

Sam carefully put the gun under the glass counter for display just as the heavy door opened. Jo, Sam's longtime friend and coworker, stood in the doorway in her usual 'Someone Who Doesn't Know What The Fuck They're Doing Is Coming In Here So Take Every Penny They're Willing To Cough Up' stance and nodded at Sam before ushering inside the customer.

' _Thank god for Jo,'_ Sam thought before breaking into his intimidating gun-trafficker pose. _"Keeps the crazies out."_

A small, shy little man shuffled in through the door, jumping slightly when Jo closed the heavy door behind him. Sam felt pity for the man. His dark hair made him look incredibly pale, making the circles under his eyes looking even more prominent. Blue eyes, which may have once been startling, were dull and empty. He looked like a drooping ragdoll. The man slouched slightly, but Sam could see him fidget and twitch with anxious energy. Sam felt both pity and concern for the poor guy.

He wore a turtleneck that looked incredibly uncomfortable, which reached up to the skin just below his jaw. That was unfortunate. The customer really didn't look anxious to take it off, but it was store policy that you couldn't walk out with bulky clothing. Too high risk of theft, is what Dean always said back when he was still working the floor.

"Excuse me," Sam said, trying to sound comforting, "you can't wear that sweater in here."

The man jumped at the sound of Sam's voice and managed to form the word, "What?" with his cracked and broken voice.

Dean nodded and repeated his command, "you need to take it off. It's too bulky. Might steal something." Sam moved from behind the counter towards the man, who had begun backing away from Sam ever since he started talking.

The customer whimpered at Sam's movement, and gripped the base of his sweater. "Okay, okay. Just… please. Stay there."

Sam relented, surprised at the terror in the small man's even smaller plea. He moved back behind the counter and watched while the sweater was pulled up over the man's head by shaking fingers. Sam gasped as the word _"MINE"_ was revealed from under the garment, taking up the entirety of the poor man's lightly muscled chest.

"Excuse me," Sam stuttered, "for just a moment." He stole through the back door into the storage room. He pulled a small walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it quietly. "Jo. Sam here. Do not open the door."

"Got it." Jo responded, no question or hesitation in her voice. Sam knew there was no way that the shaking man in the sale room would be leaving if Jo was charged to keep the door closed.

Sam fished his disposable cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the only number he ever used the bulky phone to contact. The phone was answered on the second ring, prompt and just what Sam needed to hear.

"Sam." Dean spoke gruffly into the phone, his voice filling Sam's head on the other side of the line.

"Dean. You need to get down to the warehouse. Now." Sam urged.

"What's going on?" Dean asked with decisive urgency. This line was exclusive for emergencies only.

"Well," Sam said, anxiety flooding his veins, "unless there's two guys running around Lawrence with possessive words carved into their skin, I would suggest you get your ass down here and quit asking me questions."

Silence. Then, "What the hell is he doing buying a gun?"

"From the looks of it," Sam answered with a tinge of regret, considering he had been planning on selling the guy in the front room a gun, "I think he's gonna decorate the pavement with the contents of his head."

More silence. "I'm on my way. Keep him there."

"Yeah, because I was going to let him walk out the front door. Obviously."

"Shut up, Sam. I swear to Christ I-" and the line went silent as Dean hung up.

Sam pocketed the phone and returned. The dark-haired customer, who Sam now knew was the famous Castiel Novak he had heard so much about, had his sweater clutched to his chest and was holding a heavy glock in his bony hand. Sam started, but soothed himself by reminding himself that none of the guns in this room were ever loaded, but it didn't make Sam feel a whole lot better. Having a gun pointed at your face made it hard to relax. The smaller man had come right up to the counter and had the glock aimed at Sam's face, his arm fully extended and quivering with the weight of the piece and nerves.

"L-let me out," Castiel stammered. "The door won't open. I know it's you. Not wanting me to leave. Just… please. I don't know what you want, but, I just… I don't have much money but I have some old paintings back at my apartment that could be worth something, or I could call-"

Sam didn't waste time, snatching the gun from the small hand holding it and pressing it into the cool glass of the counter. He glowered down at Castiel, who craned his head up to look at Sam as the huge man leaned over the counter.

Castiel had underestimated how much taller Sam was than he. Even taller than Dean. Could easily do what had been done by Dean. Probably would. Castiel backed away, barely keeping himself upright as terror started to pump through his veins. His breathing became erratic and uneven. Days of not eating, little sleep, and overwhelming anxiety was catching up to Castiel. Castiel's vision started deteriorating, and he felt himself swaying.

"Please." Castiel begged, dropping down clumsily to his knees, "please don't hurt me. I'm begging you. Please."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Sam said darkly, as Castiel began to sink down onto the floor. "Do you know what my brother would do to me if I soiled his fun by hurting you?"

"B-brother?" Castiel's foggy brain could barely wrap itself around the meaning of the word.

"My older brother has had it pretty hard the past few years. Dean really just… needs this release."

If Castiel could have paled he would have. "Dean," he sputtered. It was barely a question.

The last thing Castiel saw, or at least understood, before his head collided with the floor was Sam, his pity evaporating like steam. "Coming in to buy a gun from a Winchester? How stupid do you have to be? Should have left town while you could. You think Dean was hard to get along with before? Just wait. You'll see."

And then, for Castiel, the world was enveloped by heavy shadows.


	11. Chapter 11

"Yeah, because I was going to let him walk out the front door. Obviously." Sam said sarcastically, making Dean's teeth grit together in frustration.

"Shut up Sam," Dean growled, already closing the phone with a decisive click, "I swear to Christ I will go ape shit if that little bitch screws up my opportunity."

Dean hung up the phone on his brother with an air of annoyance, but in reality he could not have been more pleased. Honestly, he couldn't believe that this had happened. Two months, and Dean had been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to swoop in and reclaim what was obviously his. If those guards would just relax, then he would have taken Castiel back weeks ago. Granted, hearing of his dematerialization had been fantastic. Knowing that Dean's prize was falling apart without Dean to keep him grounded and focused was really making the whole almost-got-caught-you-stupid-mother-fucker thing a little less humiliating. Castiel was spiraling, and now Dean could bring him back. It was like candy. Or a hot shower. Or a submissive piece of ass waiting for a good fucking. Yeah, a lot like that, oddly enough.

Den made a quick U-turn and went back towards Lawrence, which was only about a two-hour drive away. He had been staying relatively close to home sweet home until he could find a good opportunity to leave town with everything that belonged to him in his possession. And look what patience had gotten him- literally the one major reason he had stayed this close to goddamn Lawrence had just walked right into his lap under his own free will. Jesus Christ, was Dean was ecstatic. He couldn't help but let his mind wander and imagine how he would begin the reunion. Sam hated it when Dean shit where he ate, so Dean would take Castiel away from the warehouse. Stick him in the trunk and just start driving. He could go to Canada. Or better yet- Mexico. Dean didn't love the idea of going through border patrol, considering his face was probably plastered on every no-fly list, no-crossing-the-border list, no-leaving-prison list that there was, but Dean wasn't prepared to get caught again, and leaving the country was his best bet. Not only did Dean doubt that he would get lucky two times in a row, but it would seriously undermine his reputation to get tracked down with that close of a call so soon. Not to say that Dean didn't enjoy the occasional chase, but not when he hadn't quite gotten back into the flow of things yet. There was still business to take care of, old acquaintances to contact, so on and so forth.

But god, to have that kind of power back. Dean practically bounced in his seat at the very idea. What would he do first? Maybe not even fuck him. Maybe Dean could start just by fucking him mentally. Cut him occasionally, deprive him of sleep and food- keep him jumpy and frightened. Then, just let him run somewhere. Somewhere open and remote, without another human being in sight. Panic would wear him down. But the desperation, the adrenalin, would keep him going, just for a little while. Then, when he thought he had a chance, scoop him back up again. Hell, maybe punish him for trying to get away when that's what he had been allowed to do. Change the rules. Scramble the daily schedule. Keep him on his toes. Dean hummed with contentment at all the possibilities.

What a wonderful world Dean lived in.


	12. Chapter 12

**Wow! 12 reviews in less than a full day! That's more than I've ever got on anything, ever. Those who reviewed can give themselves a pat on the back for basically forcing my hand and making this chapter happen (instead of forgetting about the story for a shit-ton amount of time- real sorry about that btw) This one is way longer than the one I wrote and uploaded yesterday (it's like, four times as long. You're all welcome.) Anyway, a lot more happens in this one. And another cliffhanger! I know that cliffhangers are everyone's most favorite thing in the whole world. Consider it to be my end-of-the-school-year gift to all of you.**

 **As always, I own nothing but the fucked up shit. Reviews get me to get my ass in gear and write, so feel free to drop me a message! Validate my existence plz (not that I'm desperate or anything)**

Castiel could feel himself drifting slowly back into consciousness, trying his best to shed the drunkenness of nonconsensual sleep without giving away the fact that he was no longer under the influence of mister sandman. Castiel could hear muffled voices, but was still not yet at the brain capacity to decipher them. Castiel instead focused on regaining all his faculties. He tried first to curl his fingers, then roll his wrists, then bend his elbows, then try to unknot his shoulders. The voices were far enough away that Castiel was confident that his movement wouldn't be seen, and the lack of light permeating through his closed eyelids made Castiel comfortable that he was in a dark enough room that no movement larger than him standing up and starting to sprint- not that Castiel was sure he would be able to accomplish such a feat if he attempted it- would be immediately noticed. When he was met with no obvious resistance, other than the protests of his own body, Castiel cracked his eyes open. He was scared, sure, but he was also holding on to a certain sense of calm. The room he had been stored in was dark, but not pitch, and cool, but not freezing. He was lying on a sort of pop-out couch in what appeared to be a half-empty storage room. There didn't seem to be anything Castiel could use to defend himself, so Castiel let his head thump down onto the thin pillow. Castiel didn't know how long he had been out, but whether it was two minutes or two hours didn't, Castiel felt, make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. Castiel knew he was going to die.

Maybe there's something about the whole, getting-kidnapped-and-raped-but-then-getting-away-and-having-a-chance-to-return-to-some-sense-of-normalicy-but-then-literally-walking-right-back-to-where-you-started thing. Castiel woke up sick and wretched and scared, but Castiel should have been freaked completely past thought and he wasn't. Castiel knew this was the end of the road. Dean Winchester doesn't snatch people and then decide that he's not interested after all and let them go. Castiel understood that he was going to be tortured and assaulted, and when I was finished being tortured and assaulted, he was dead. But it was like: okay, that's the way it goes, bad luck, damn. Like the way you might feel if your vacation got canceled at the last minute, or you'd spent all day making a fabulous birthday cake for your boyfriend and tripped over the threshold bringing it in and it landed upside down on the dog. Damn. But that's all. Castiel lay there, breathing, listening to his heart race, but feeling this weird numb composure.

Numb. A good way to describe how he felt. Emotionally and physically numb. Numb, and dog-tired. Castiel took a deep, steadying breath, and allowed himself to sink back into a dreamless sleep.

"I told you my no-big-clothes policy would come in handy." Dean said with a smirk.

"Yes Dean, we know." Jo said sarcastically, "You're a genius."

"Oh Josephine," Dean squealed, "You noticed!"

"You're lucky I consider you my friend. Most people who call me that end up getting a testicle shot off." Jo spit, but Dean could see the smile behind her fierce glare.

Sam stood, listening to the banter. He had his arms crossed across his broad chest, and let his head lean back to join his back against the wall. His eyes were closed, but he could imagine the scene as it played out before him- Jo would be sitting on the counter while Dean leaned against the wall adjacent to Sam. Dean would eventually make his way closer and closer to Jo, until she responded to his flirtations with a soft kick to the center of his chest, which would send him back to his post on the wall. He would laugh, roll his eyes at the very possibility that Jo could resist his "undeniable charm", and then resume the banter. Of course, all three people in the room knew that nothing would ever happen between Dean and Jo. They were like siblings. But Dean had, once upon a time, had interest in Jo, and the joke that he thought something might happen beyond a non-sexual, very not-kinky punch to the nuts was still funny, years later.

"Hey, Samantha." Dean said with a laugh, "What's up, buttercup? You on your period?"

"Period jokes." Jo said flatly, "Hilarious. Did you come up with that all by yourself?"

Before Dean could respond with some snarky comment that Sam knew would only delay what he needed to say, he said, "I wish I didn't have to take part in this."

"What?" Dean asked, the humor gone from his voice. The comedic atmosphere created by the friendly raillery between Jo and Dean dissipated from the room like mist.

"I can deal with the arms dealing." Sam said flatly, opening his eyes. "Really. I know the family business is a big deal to you, and it was an even bigger deal to dad, and I can understand that. Having the boys," Sam cast a quick glance to Jo, who had frozen on the counter, "and friends, all together, united to a common cause or whatever. I get it. But selling a handgun to a paranoid housewife and helping you recapture your… What did you call him? Your property? Helping you get him back under your thumb is a totally different thing from selling guns." Sam looked down at his feet to avoid the confusing mix of emotions pouring through Dean's gaze. "You're my brother, and I love you. But-"

Dean scoffed at the open affection. "Come on Sam, let's not-"

No, no," Sam interrupted, his eyes still fixed on the floor like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. "I need to say this. I love you. But I never wanted to be a part of the murdering. Or the kidnapping. And I especially did not want to be a part of the torture and the rape. I would protect you to the death, Dean. You know that. But I can't contribute to what you're doing here. To what you're doing to that poor guy. What's left of my conscience can't handle it."

Sam met Dean's eyes, and they shared a silence as the heavy air threatened to suffocate them. Sam broke the stare first, casting his gaze to the wall. Jo sat, paralyzed by Sam's declaration, staring at her lap. The three stayed still, avoiding eye contact in silence for the agonizing eternity of less than a full minute until Dean cleared his throat and nodded.

"I get it, Sammy. You won't have to deal with this again, I promise. If I had known you were going to get dragged into this…" he shook his head as his words faded away into nothing. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted."

Acknowledging that the conversation was over, the three concluded the meeting. Jo descended the stairs to return to her post outside the door outside the show floor. Sam soon followed her, making himself comfortable behind the cold glass display case. Dean stood for a moment. Not really thinking or planning his next move, just standing. He stayed a stature for a few beats before sighing and retreating to the next room where Castiel lay sleeping.

"Honey," he said darkly, "I'm home."

Castiel drifted, once again, back into consciousness. He soon became aware of the significant elevation of his head, and then the fingers slowly carding through his hair. Castiel felt the denim pressed against his cheek, Dean's jeans rubbing against his face. Dean either didn't notice that Castiel had awoken, or he chose to not say anything. Castiel lay, motionless, for what had to have been more than fifteen minutes. He lay still and let Dean run his hand along Castiel's head, softly stroking his dark locks.

When Castiel decided that Dean didn't know he was awake, the man spoke, "I missed you. You didn't give me away- I appreciate that. I knew you would be good."

Castiel whimpered involuntarily, the noise ripping through Castiel's dry throat. His breath began to get heavier, his heart picking up speed at an alarming rate. Really, the whole situation was alarming, but Castiel refused to let his physical panic leak into his brain and make him brain-panicked. Dean didn't seem angry. In fact, his voice was filled with affection, the words sickly syrupy, dripping out of his mouth and making Castiel feel sick.

"I know that probably has a lot to do with threatening everyone who has ever had the misfortune to call you an acquaintance, but that doesn't mean I don't still appreciate the loyalty." Dean continued, choosing not to comment on the hiccupping breaths and whimpers escaping the little man and instead focusing on touching his soft hair and speaking softly into his ear. "I _really_ missed you. You should be proud of me- I've been holding off until I found you. Not a drop of blood has stained these hands. The only blood I want is yours. If that isn't what loyalty is all about then I don't' know what is."

Castiel whined at that, his collected numbness fizzing away the longer Dean spoke. Dean smiled a thin-lipped, cruel smile at the noise. He slid his hand down, letting it rest on Castiel's throat where it met his shoulder. He traced the outline of the scar that lay there softly, feeling Castiel shake beneath his hand.

"It healed nicely. I base my timeline based on this, you know. But I don't think I'll go with this again. Not with you, anyway. I like the way it looks, and I don't want to mess up the line work by breaking the scar tissue. I'll guess we'll have to figure out a new way. I like routine- it makes things a lot easier for me, you now? Strict rules to keep me on the straight and narrow, I'm sure you understand. If I didn't have something to remind me when it was time to kill, I would probably just hold on to someone until they died of dehydration or something. Can someone die of fear? I guess that would just be classified as a heart attack. I mean, I could just starve them to death, but then they start to look less… Attractive. I mean, that happens to someone who doesn't drink water for too long, but it has a totally different effect than just dehydration. Well there's always the possibility that they could have some kind of blood-clotting issue and bleed to death, but I'm usually pretty careful about blood control when I'm not quite ready to let them go. Nobody's ever died when I wasn't ready for them to, but I guess there's always a possibility that a person's heart could just stop for no reason. I heard that happened to someone once. They just dropped dead. How crazy is that?" he didn't wait for an answer before he continued. "I guess you can never really fully prepare. You never know what kinds of crazy health thing someone might have. They might not even know!"

Dean continued to talk, but it started to run together for Castiel. It was mostly just different ways for people to die without being purposefully murdered, which was a subject that seemed to fascinate Dean. For Castiel, it made him feel like he was going to throw up. Would throwing up make him stop talking? Castiel doubted it. Not to mention he didn't have much to chuck. When one is planning on ending his life, he very rarely thinks to eat breakfast. Castiel wished he could feel hungry. He wished he could feel hungry or scared or homesick or angry or _something_. The numbness was coming back, oozing from the base of Castiel's spine up to a concentrated spot right behind his forehead. A migraine began thumping in Castiel's skull, heavy hammers threating to bust holes where his temples once were.

Dean's droning on was making Castiel feel even worse. He just wanted to curl up in the dark and be quiet. But, no. Dean just kept talking in a voice that Castiel could hear his smile through. Castiel wasn't angry, or frustrated, or even a little ticked off. He was just so tired of hurting.

He didn't know he was going to talk until the words escaped his lips. "Would you please shut up?"


	13. Chapter 14

**_Thank you Bex for your kind review. These kinds of things are what get me to write. I'll try to get another chapter going, but a little motivation would really get my butt in gear!_**

 _The psychopath never adjudicates the situation with reference to the future. He just plunges ahead… They will also be more bored than the average person. They have to constantly escalate in order to get a kick out of life. And at times they escalate to the point of being arrested._

-Thomas P. Detre, M.D.,

Yale University Professor of Psychiatry

 _They seem to live only for the moment_

-Kale Menninger, M.D.

"Would you please shut up?

Dean froze, the hand that had been caressing Castiel's throat tightening without his permission. As requested, he stopped talking, the words that had been forming in his throat turned to stone, dropping and settling down into the base of his stomach. Had that really just happened? Dean didn't know how to react. He didn't know whether to laugh at what a fabulous joke that must have been meant as, or pull out the knife tucked into his waistband and carve the little man's eyes out, or something in between.

Similarly, Castiel felt as if his heart had stopped beating, and part of him was grateful at the sudden and merciful death. He genuinely did not know what had made him speak. His thoughts changed to a cycle of _stupid, stupid, stupid what in god's name is wrong with you why did you do that you've really done it now well done stupid stupid…_

Dean slid his hand to hold Castiel's trachea, his thumb coming up to press just under Castiel's jaw and his fingers squeezing the other side of Castiel's throat. Castiel let out a small whine, his eyesight dimming and his thoughts clouding as his breathing was cut off. As his instincts to survive overtook his desire to remain still, Castiel reached up with both hands and clawed at Dean's vice grip on his throat, trying desperately to pull the hand away enough to take a breath. Dean didn't react to Castiel's pathetic attempts at a fight, his body moving on its own accord in response to Castiel's outburst. It wasn't that Dean necessarily wanted to kill Castiel; it was more that Dean didn't know how else to react. This had never happened before. This whole situation was unfamiliar territory to Dean, and there was something comfortingly familiar about holding a life, literally, in his hand. But, Dean recalled, being begged for forgiveness and mercy was also territory he knew how to traverse, and that road didn't lead him somewhere with nobody to play with. He lessened his grip on Castiel's throat, sliding his hand down to rest on the man's collarbones, and listened to Castiel's harsh breathing as he attempted to flood his body with the oxygen it had been formerly deprived of.

"I didn't want to do that." Dean said coldly, his voice betraying no emotion. When he was met with no response, Dean continued, "You made me do that. I had to."

Castiel didn't say anything. He couldn't risk it. The fog in his brain was only just beginning to clear and the fire in his lungs had only just begun to dissipate. What would he say? Sorry? Won't happen again? Please let me go home? Yeah, right. Sure.

They sat in silence as the minutes turned, Castiel's mind racing while Dean's stayed blank. It took several minutes for Castiel's breathing to return to normal, and even when it finally did his lungs still shuddered from fear. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears not to fall. His migraine had only worsened when Dean had used a vice-grip on his throat, and the hammering in his temples threatened to burst his skull open.

"While I do appreciate the return," Dean began, his cool composure from before having returned, "I have to wonder why. Did you not know Sam is my little brother?" When Castiel met his question with silence, Dean continued, "Were you getting a gun to protect yourself? I know there has been cops guarding your place- I keep an eye on what's mine- but it wouldn't shock me if you were just feeling paranoid. But seriously, of all the places to go buy a gun, you choose Sam Winchester? It isn't exactly a common name, Castiel."

When Dean allowed Castiel's name to pass through his lips, Castiel broke. He sobbed. He sobbed a wet, hiccupping, desperate sob. Castiel was by no means a pretty crier. His eyes filled with tears and they swelled in their sockets while his nose ran. Spit gathered in the corners of his mouth as he wept piteously. His lungs shook and his body shivered and he abandoned his attempt to remain still by launching himself away from Dean to curl up in a ball on the other side of the couch. He was shaking too much to attempt an escape, but he could pull his legs up to his chest and wrap his arms around himself and tuck his head in toward his chest and blubber. He knew it was pathetic, but that didn't stop him.

Dean's voice turned angry as he stood up and moved to tower above Castiel, "What were you doing here?"

"I was going to kill myself," Castiel stammered.

Dean set his jaw. Nobody damaged what was his except Dean himself, and that included the property. He reached down to yank at Castiel's arm and pulled him up, and dragged him across the room to the door. Dean dragged Castiel through the door, into the showroom, and past Sam, who knew better than to try and stop his brother. They went down the stairs, out the door and to the street. Castiel was still shirtless, having given up his sweater under Sam's command, but he barely noticed the chill of night. He didn't try to struggle. He didn't try to resist as Dean hauled him through a dark, abandoned alley to the Impala and stuffed him into the trunk.

He just let Dean take him. Again.


End file.
